


Facsimile

by worldturtling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Not character!death, Trauma, solitary!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldturtling/pseuds/worldturtling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes off at the end of season 8, looking to find himself. The news stations finds about a thousand of him in a ditch first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facsimile

**Author's Note:**

> There is a room in heaven storing a bunch of puppets that are identical to Dean, wearing his face, and they are all dead and they all died crying out, scared, and feeling very alone. What would happen if Dean had to confront this. 
> 
> AKA Angels were not the only ones falling from heaven;their toys did too.

For two weeks the news had an asphyxiating attack about the meteor shower of people. CNN flew to Dubai. You tube footage of a man floating ashore naked  with burn bruises on his shoulder blades, already dead from drowning, surfaced.

Even turning the news stations off didn’t work. Helicopters scoured the land, looking for craters in the earth and bodies in the sea. The beat of their flight followed Dean everywhere.

He camped himself out in a motel, under blackest patch of sky he could find. The cracked bathtub made a better bed for him, the beds were piled against the door. He didn’t turn on the lights, or the television. He carried a radio on him, and listened for this storm to blow over, listened so he could finally leave town and finally try to forget the last thirty four years of himself.

The first thing he did when he woke against the cold porcelain was start the coffee maker on the sink. The room was rented out for the next month but there was only one sample of coffee so he bought a small tin of cheap stuff. He scrubbed his hands clean, scrubbed with his nails and then under those too. He washed his face.

The radio played during his morning routine, every morning the same story.

_Dead body in buffalo_

_Dead body on the race track_

_Dead body in an elementary school playground, ruining the jungle gym bars_

By the end of the third day the news had changed the wording

Unidentified Falling Casualties

UFC in a bar in Texas

UFC in the thymes

No one knew when they’d stop turning up. It was a guess at how many were still lost at sea.

It’s the second week when they find something Dean stops at.

_“A crater has been discovered in Illinois, what appears to be a basin of corpses. Citizens claim they were a part of the falling casualties last week. What sets this phenomenon apart is that all the UFCs are not only together, they are exactly identical. They are also clothed, different from the other bodies, and are wearing the exact same army green jackets, brown boots, and even their jeans have the same tears and frayed ends. Police are scanning databases to identify what may have been a genetic freak experiment-”_

Dean turns the radio off.

He turns the television on for the first time in several weeks and watches the news play. Every news station has a peripheral view of the crater, large and gaping, but tape and fences are enclosed around it. Medical vans and unmarked giant white trucks are surrounding it, as are men in white suits and masks.

It’s CNN that finally breaks through the fence. Anderson Cooper was a favorite.

He sees the blood blooming on the back of one jacket, familiar to him even though he had never seen his own back at such an angle.

He had never seen himself in so many places at once either.

The camera looks at the face and there’s no room for doubt, though Dean hadn’t even carried any.

Dean sees another look on his faces as the camera zooms too the mass pile of Dean’s corpses. Fear. His  eyes are wide open, some closed but most are perturbingly open and wide and glazed over with a dead fear.

He doesn’t hear the news station and maybe he put it on mute, but the camera is still rolling, maybe an error with the satellite but the images are not cutting out. The bodies keep coming into view, stacked over each other like they had fallen in neat piles but once landed fell to the wayside. He sees his own arm bent and twisted into unnatural and broken ways. He sees one mouth wide open as if he had died from screaming. He sees blood on his own neck, his back, his stomach, sometimes smeared on his face.

_Why wouldn’t they close my eyes_

He retches into the week old Chinese takeout carton while the tv continues to play the shots of his dead face over and over, his open eyes watching him mutely through the screen. They’re unseeing, and horrified. 


End file.
